


At Death's Door

by sadieb798



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Comfort, Death References, Gen, Humor, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, You're not dying Sherlock, caregiver John, johnlockchallenges, johnsjumpercollection, sarahtheartiste
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For johnsjumpercollection, based on her prompt for johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com’s gift exchange: "It's bloody two AM in the morning. What the hell are you doing?" Hope you like it, dear!</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Death's Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnsjumpercollection](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=johnsjumpercollection).



> This is my first Johnlock fan fiction. Please be gentle with me.

**  
At Death's Door**

 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice carried from downstairs.

John shifted in his bed, his flatmate’s voice stirring him and just bringing him up from the chasm of sleep.

“John!” Sherlock cried, a little louder. John opened one eyelid to stare at the digital clock on his bed stand. It was 2 o’clock. In the _morning_. John groaned internally as he scrunched up his eyes. Just twelve more minutes, then he’d see what the perpetual toddler wanted.

“John!” Sherlock yelled again.

Twelve minutes. Just twelve more--

A single gunshot sliced through the silence of Baker Street, jerking John awake. He sat up in bed, his eyes darting to the door to his bedroom. The sound had come from downstairs. Another gunshot rang out. John, realizing that Sherlock wouldn’t stop until he made an appearance, grunted angrily, shoving aside the blankets of his bed as he got up to go to the door. He jerked the door open in time to hear two more gunshots pierce the night.

John irritably, yet quickly, took the stairs three at a time. When he arrived at the stairs’ landing, he turned the corner into the sitting room of their flat just in time to see his gangly flatmate sprawled out on the couch lift his left arm up into the air and release three more rounds into the ceiling from John’s gun. John frowned deeply as he stomped over, and gruffly took the gun from the consulting detective’s fingers.

“Sherlock,” John said, checking the gun’s magazine to see how many bullets he’d used up: he’d emptied the cartridge. He sighed. He’d have to buy more bullets. John tried to keep himself somewhat calm as he fixed Sherlock a scathing look.

“It is bloody _two AM_ in the _morning_. What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“John,” Sherlock said weakly, drawing an eyebrow quirk from the doctor. Sherlock looked up at John through heavy lidded eyes, “I’m dying.”

John furrowed his eyebrows. He didn’t need this right now; he had to go to the surgery early tomorrow, and he’d only just had about three hours of sleep and Sherlock’s latest episode wasn’t helping him at all. Sarah would be absolutely livid with him if he fell asleep at his desk again. There were a number of things John should have done differently. He should have turned right back and gone upstairs to get more sleep. He should have laughed at Sherlock and gone back to bed. He should have gone into an angry rant about what an absolute horror Sherlock was for waking him up with his latest ridiculousness and gone back to bed. It didn't matter what he did, so long as he went back to bed.

But instead of doing any of those things, John asked the obvious question. “Dying? What do you mean you’re dying?”

“Dying, John!” Sherlock cried out annoyed, as though it were perfectly obvious how he was feeling based on his word alone. He sprang into a sitting position, and fixed John with a glare that was usually reserved solely for Anderson. “ _Dying_! How many ways must I spell it out for you?! I’m at death’s door! I’m terminally ill! I’m--” Sherlock interrupted himself by coughing. Except this cough was more of a violent, hacking sound that made him shake in a fit.

John’s eyebrows flew up as “concerned doctor” mode overrode “irritated, under-slept flatmate”. John went over, flicked on the light so he could really take in Sherlock’s appearance. Of course his curls were everywhere, he wore his blue dressing gown and grey pajamas--overall he had his usual disheveled look. But his pale skin was--well _paler,_ and he had dark rings underneath his bloodshot eyes and his elegant nose was streaming with snot that Sherlock was desperately trying to keep in.

“Oh my god, Sherlock,” John said, putting a hand to his friend’s forehead underneath his mop of dark curls. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock you’re burning up!”

“I’m dying,” Sherlock said again, sounding absolutely miserable.

“You’re not dying, you’ve probably caught the flu. It’s really no wonder since you took the tube home last night--”

“Idiot cabbies wouldn’t pick me up,” Sherlock said with a sneer, his baritone coming out nasally as he sniffed.

“Well you _were_ carrying a severed _head_ , Sherlock.”

“It was for an experiment!” Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation before he was launched into another coughing fit that left him struggling to breathe.

John frowned. “Right. That’s it. Get up. We’re moving you to your room.” John placed the empty gun onto the coffee table, and made a move to help his friend up from his spot on the couch.

Sherlock however, once his coughing had subsided, shook his head, his curls slapping him in the face. “No. Just leave me here to die,” he said as he dramatically slumped back into the couch cushions.

“Don’t be stupid, I’m not leaving you here--you’ll get everyone sick.”

“ _‘Everyone’_?” Sherlock said, opening his impossible blue eyes to fix John with a disbelieving look. “We live alone. Who is this ‘everyone’ you’re speaking of?”

“Mrs. Hudson for one,” John said. “Me, Greg, and anyone else who could come into contact with you.”

“I won’t be quarantined John!”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“John your nonchalant reaction towards the deterioration of my health is making me seriously question my decision in your placement in my will.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. Where had _that_ come from? Did Sherlock just pull random subjects of topic out of a hat? He couldn’t help himself as he began firing off questions: “What will? I didn’t even know you had a will. Why would you have a will?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock responded, fluttering his eyes closed as though this subject were tedious and not worth his time.

“Alright, well where is it then? Is it in the bank? Is it with Mycroft?”

“As though I would trust either Sebastian or my brother to keep something of mass importance.” Sherlock sighed. “Besides they would probably alter it to their favor.”

“Well then where _are_ you keeping it?”

Sherlock gestured to the temple of his head with his forefinger.

John stared at him in disbelief. “You’re not serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Sherlock said, looking up at John. “It’s the one place where I can ensure not only it’s safety, but also trust the person holding on to it not to change a verse in their benefit.”

“You don’t have a will,” John said as he made another move to relocate his flatmate.

“I do so--I’m currently revising it now.” Sherlock then coughed nastily, causing him to clutch his abdomen and sit up.

“All right, up you go,” John said, helping Sherlock to his feet. John then slung his flatmate’s left arm over John’s shoulders as he began leading Sherlock to the downstairs bedroom.

“ ‘To my blogger, John,’ ” Sherlock recited eloquently, sniffling, as they walked slowly, past the armchairs.

“You’re really doing this then?” John grunted, allowing a small, amused smirk to grace his face. “Right now?”

“ ‘To whom I would have _liked_ to have left the only items that were of any value to me’--”

“Like what?” John interrupted. “You’ve barely got anything _of_ value.”

“--‘but won’t,’ ” Sherlock continued, his voice sharp in annoyance at having been interrupted. “ ‘As he deliberately went against my explicit orders _not_ to remove me from my deathbed’--”

“You need to keep this thing in your room, Sherlock. And that was hardly a deathbed. And you’re not dying.”

“--‘and in doing so, hastened my untimely and embarrassingly dull death’--” His voice slightly rising above John’s.

“Not dying. And I’m a doctor, very sure I know what I’m doing.”

“--‘therefore he shall receive absolutely nothing, except my sincerest condolence that he was graced with such small intelligence. SH’.” He ended hastily, as well as with a cough.

At that point they had reached the door to Sherlock’s room. John reached out with his left hand, his right wrapped around Sherlock’s thin frame to keep him from toppling over, and turned the knob to open the door. As expected, his bed was cluttered with books, test tubes and various oddities that were keeping Sherlock from having a space in his own bed.

John, sitting Sherlock at the very edge of the bed, began clearing off the bedspread by closing and gathering up books and placing them in teetering piles on the hardwood floor. While doing so, he kept up the conversation of a (possible) will’s existence.

“Well that was an absolute rubbish of a will,” he said, collecting test tubes and other unmentionables before settling them on a table.

Sherlock glared at John. It looked about as worse as his usual glare, only due to the fact that Sherlock looked like absolute shit. “Oh?”

“Well not to complain--” Sherlock scoffed “--but after everything I’ve put up with from you, I think I deserve _something._ At the very least, a test tube.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “ ‘John, I take back everything I said--except the part about you having small intelligence, I don’t take that back at all--but about the part where I said I wasn’t leaving you anything. I leave you one test tube.’ There, better?”

John gave a tight smile. “Much,” he said before he made Sherlock stand up. He then pulled the blankets of the bed back, and bade Sherlock to get in bed. Sherlock did as he was told, the fight he had earlier subdued for the moment due to another round of coughing.

“Johnnn,” Sherlock groaned as John pulled the blankets over him. Sherlock closed his eyes in evident pain as his fingers clutched the temples of his head. “My body is turning against me. Just kill me now and be done with it.”

“And only get a test tube out of it? Not to mention some jail time? Not on your life.”

Sherlock glared at him, unamused by his poor attempt at a joke. John only smiled cheekily. “Be right back,” he said before turning and going back to the kitchen.

Sherlock sighed as he massaged the sides of his head, trying to will the splitting pain to go away.

John returned a few minutes later, in one hand he carried a box of tissues and in the other, a glass of orange juice while he had a thick pillow tucked at his side. 

“Here you go,” he said, placing the orange juice and tissues on the bed side table close to where Sherlock could reach them easily. He then took the pillow from between his arm and motioned for Sherlock to sit up. Sherlock did and John arranged the pillows to be stacked on top of each other, so that Sherlock could lie back easily. He did so and noticed the difference in comfort immediately.

That was before he sneezed so forcefully that snot dribbled down his nose. John bit back a laugh as he handed Sherlock a tissue. Sherlock took it with a look of irritation and wiped his nose clean, then deposited the contaminated tissue into a rubbish bin that John set just beside his bed.

“Last thing,” John said, extending his hand out to Sherlock. Sherlock glared at the two white pills in John’s palm.

“No,” he said.

John frowned. “I’m not trying to poison you if that’s what you think.”

“You’re not, obviously. It is clearly aspirin judging by the look of the pills' texture--”

“Sherlock this will help you get better faster.”

“What’s the point? I’ll die of boredom anyway.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” John’s eyes narrowed slightly, unamused.

“Lestrade hasn’t called about any cases in _days._ ”

“Yeah so I’ve noticed,” John said, remembering that there was still a dismembered _head_ floating in a large jar of embalming fluid on the kitchen table. “Look, just take these, will you?”

Sherlock scoffed and turned away.

John licked his lips in irritation, shifting his weight slightly so that it was evenly distributed on both his feet. “As your doctor, Sherlock--”

“You really do like playing that card, don’t you, John?” Sherlock asked dryly, briefly slanting his eyes to look back at John before shifting them away again.

John ignored him. “I’m _advising_ you that it would be in your best interest if you took these pills, forced fluids, and stay in bed so that you can stay clear of infection.” Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him. 

“And all joking aside,” he continued, “I really do worry about your health. You barely sleep or eat while we’re on a case, purge once we’re done, then go back to starving yourself. It’s no wonder you’re sick! Your body needs a rest and time to heal. The sooner you get over this, the sooner you can go back to--whatever it was you were going to do with that head in the kitchen.” He finished.

Sherlock stared for a few more minutes at the wall before he launched again into a fit of coughing. Once he was done, he sighed in exasperation, and held out his hand for the pills. John practically beamed as he passed them over and Sherlock made a point of putting the pills into his mouth and downing the glass of orange juice in one go to swallow them.

“There,” he said, handing the empty glass back to John. “Better?”

“Much,” he replied before going back into the kitchen to refill the glass. “Now _please_ get some sleep,” he said, depositing the refilled glass back in its place on the table. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

“Hn,” Sherlock grunted as he slumped back onto the pillows with a pout, but closing his eyes obediently.

John took that as dismission. He left Sherlock to his devices, walked through the sitting room, flicking the light off as he passed, climbed up the stairs and settled back into his own bed to catch a few hours of sleep. 

* * *

 

“Right so, I’ll be at the surgery,” John put on his coat as he spoke to Sherlock.

It was the next day, and John had managed to get two more hours of sleep under his belt, and felt a shot of adrenaline running through him as he quickly checked on his patient. He had to leave soon or risk being late.

“Text me if you need me, I should be home around five if you don’t. _Please_ don’t badger Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade if you get bored--I _do_ want to keep this thing from spreading--just watch some telly or sleep or something. But no experiments.” He added quickly before Sherlock had a chance to correct him on it.

Sherlock was sitting up against the pillows sipping orange juice and wiping his nose with the occasional tissue as John ran through his list of demands. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes Mycroft,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt.

John returned the eyeroll, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly in a smile. “Right. Well I’ll see you later then.” 

John turned to go, but was stopped when Sherlock suddenly called out “What would you leave me?”

John, frowning in confusion, backtracked to the threshold of the room. Sherlock was still in his spot, his eyes analyzing John.

“Sorry?” John asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“The will.” Sherlock clarified. “What are you leaving me?”

John frowned slightly. “Don’t have one.”

“Liar,” Sherlock said smugly. “If I’m to leave you a test tube, the least you could do is to let me know what my blogger intends to leave me in return.”

He did have a point, John mused. Even if it was a weird sort of point. He licked his lips thoughtfully. “Um,” he said, clenching and unclenching his fist in thought. This was so bloody bizarre.

“ ‘To Sherlock’,” he began, Sherlock watched him attentively. “ ‘My irritating, bloody awful flatmate,’ ” he smiled at Sherlock’s condemnatory frown. “ ‘I leave to you all my very few, and not-quite-so valuable possessions’--erm..” He glanced at Sherlock with uncertainty.

“You’re doing fine, John,” Sherlock said in approval, gesturing for him to continue.

“ ‘Among them my laptop...gun...my DVD collection of James Bond’--don’t roll your eyes at me! I’m trying here!--‘tea mug, and clothes. Do with them as you please--’ ”

“I’ll be pouring acid on every single one of them,” Sherlock interrupted. “Starting with your horrid jumpers. Especially the one with the _horrendous_ stripes--”

“--‘But so help me Sherlock, if I find out you burned my DVDs I will come back to haunt you’,” John injected quickly, gritting his teeth. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in amusement. John paused a little, thinking of what else he could say.

“ ‘I also want to give you my sincerest thanks.’ ” Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked in puzzlement. “ ‘I was lost without you. Just drifting, without any purpose or interest in anything’--” John’s gaze shifted uncomfortably to the floor. “--‘But you...bloody _glided_ into my life, with your stupid sweeping coat, and your cheekbones and your bloody brilliant, _brilliant,_ mind and breathed life back into me. I was broken, and you came along and made me whole again. Thanks for that. It’s been...a _hell_ of an adventure. See you on the other side, mate. Cheers.’ ”

The silence of the room was deafening. John couldn’t stand it anymore, and raised his eyes from the floor to peer at his flatmate. Sherlock’s eyes were closed; he was absorbing what John had said, analyzing it and committing it to memory. He slowly opened his eyes. They weren’t the hard-edged blue-grey they normally were, instead they held softness, and had a gentle look about them.

“Thank you John.” He said it so quietly John almost hadn’t heard him.

Taking the lengthy pause that was offered to him, John cleared his throat slightly in embarrassment before he nodded goodbye and turned away to leave.

* * *

Sherlock waited until he heard the door to the flat shut. He waited a few extra minutes to be sure that John had gone before he took out his mobile and fired off a text.

 

_I need to revise my will._

_SH_

 

Sherlock only had to wait precisely forty-three seconds before his mobile rang. He picked it up after the first ring.

“Again? Do you have any idea how expensive this is becoming, brother?” Mycroft’s voice asked irritably from the mobile.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It’s my last will and testament and I will revise it as often as I like until the air escapes my lungs.” As if on cue, he was heaved into a round of coughing yet again.

Sherlock could hear his brother’s brow furrow. “It’s sounds as though it were already taking place,” he said, mocking.

Sherlock frowned, ignoring his brother’s jibe as he steepled his fingers together underneath his chin, his phone on speaker and lying on his chest. “These words exactly:

“ ‘To John’--” he could hear Mycroft scribbling this down on the stationary paper he used, in shorthand no doubt.

“ ‘I leave you everything I possessed while living at 221b Baker Street. Including, but not limited to: my skull, violin, and the Union Jack pillow you seem to favor so much. I know how you always disapproved of any experiments I was doing--don’t try to deny it, John--therefore in the event of my passing, any experiment I had been working on at the time, I will leave for Mycroft to deal with.’ ”

Sherlock smiled as he imagined his brother’s disapproving frown on the other line. But apart for the scribbling of a pen, Mycroft supplied no comment, so Sherlock continued.

“ ‘I am also leaving you my share of my family’s trust fund’--don’t interrupt Mycroft. It’s my money and I’ll leave it to whomever I choose. --‘As well as: my share of the cottage in Versailles, the townhouse in Bath, all of my stocks and bonds, my share of the family estates, and any other form of inheritance attached to my name. Do with them as you see fit. Sell them or keep them, I don’t care as it will inevitably make little difference to me.

“ ‘I do ask, however, that you do background checks on any and all dull girlfriends you undoubtedly will meet after I am gone, as it will be painfully obvious they will be after you for your newly acquired inheritance. I will not be there to guide you, so for God’s sake exercise all obvious precautions before you decide to do something stupid, like go off and marry one of them. I suggest considering a prenuptial agreement before you go throwing away money on divorce settlements. The bills would be monstrous and they would only be off-putting for you.’ ”

Sherlock paused as he thought for a moment. The scratching of a pen could be heard on the other line, then stopped as Mycroft had caught up with him and was waiting for the next set of instructions.

Sherlock coughed once more, before he began again.

“....‘I’m not one for sentiment. I consider it a pointless, exhaustingly boring emotion, and utterly useless. Why do we even concern ourselves with it? Honestly...But this is my will, and the last word you will ever hear from me so I will be brief with my sentiment. 

“ ‘John. Earlier today, you said that I, and I quote: ‘breathed life back into you’ and ‘made you whole again’. But that’s not true. You have it backwards: it was _you_ who brought me to life. You filled in me a more powerful drive than I had ever known to succeed in every case that was presented to us--no matter how simple or complex they turned out to be. And despite all the remarks I made regarding your intelligence--however true they are--I must admit that you are the most important person that I had ever known and the only one who truly mattered to me.

“ ‘Nobody had ever praised my deductions before as you did. Constantly. Without fail. No one--with the exception of Mycroft, but this is to be expected due to our unfortunate genetic entanglement--had ever put up with me or my...difficulties before, or for so long. But you did. You proved yourself time and time again, making you in my eyes the most worthy candidate to carry on with my life’s work. You almost never questioned any requests I threw at you, admittedly most were only tests--especially the more ridiculous ones--to see how far I could push you. You passed each of them with flying colors.

“ ‘Well done. You may need to reevaluate the state of your sanity because of this.

“ ‘You were always there when I needed an ear for my deductions, to make a crime scene slightly less dull, or to offer new insight regarding cases--on the very slim, and rare occasions that you did actually pull through with this last task. You forced fluids, fed me, and tried your very best to keep me out of boredom’s gruesome clutches. Admittedly they were all very poor attempts, but attempts they were nonetheless and so I am appreciative. No matter what dangers there were along the way, life-threatening or non, you always followed me without a second’s hesitation.’ ”

Sherlock smiled to himself at the imagery his next thought provoked in his head.

“ ‘It warms my heart to know that you’d follow me to hell and back if the situation called for it.

“ ‘This is the only way I can think of to repay you for all that you've done for me, including for every instance in which you put my life before your own. And so for all these things and more, I am grateful.

“ ‘You were the best, and truest...friend I could have ever had. Thank you and goodbye. SH.’ ”

Mycroft was silent on his end, but Sherlock could hear his pen scribbling down the last few words.

“All right,” Mycroft said with a sigh when it was evident he had finished. “I’ll get these to the family lawyer and he will make the required revisions.”

“Good,” Sherlock said as he made a move to hang up.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, making him pause. His brother was silent, as though he were choosing his next words carefully. Sherlock waited. But after a short time, Mycroft gave up with a sigh and said instead, “Be sure to eat something. It just won’t do to cause the good doctor any more stress over that ailment of yours than he undoubtedly already has.”

“...Fine,” Sherlock huffed with resignation. “Goodbye Mycroft,” he said hanging up before Mycroft could say any more, and chucked his phone to the side of his bed. Sherlock settled back against his pillows, comfortable as one could be with the flu and closed his eyes before drifting off into a dreamless slumber.


End file.
